There Are Truths
by Jevvica
Summary: There had been whispers and rumors of dissidents gathering a force in Doue. Treville had ordered them to investigate. They'd been pointed to this country estate by a barkeep in town, but it looked quiet and empty. Which made Athos uneasy.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: There had been whispers and rumors of dissidents gathering a force in Doue. Treville had ordered them to investigate. They'd been pointed to this country estate by a barkeep in town, but it looked quiet and empty. Which made Athos uneasy.

Author's Notes: I've noticed that Athos smiles for Porthos more than anyone else. And, I mean, who wouldn't? I think it's impossible to face that kind of vivacious personality and not be a little caught up in it.

I'm trying to do something a bit longer here, and I do have most of it figured out, but I'd love some feedback ere I finish it.

Also, medical knowledge during this time period was crap. And that makes this tricky.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

"_Night is a time of rigor, but also of mercy. There are truths which one can see only when it's dark._"  
―Isaac Bashevis Singer

* * *

It was not yet mid-day when Athos, Porthos and their small party reached the house in the country near Doue.

"Amaury, Theirry, Alain, we will go and check the outbuildings. Etienne, Michel, Thibaut, Laurent, Benoit, Porthos, you have the main house. Signal if there's trouble."

"I hope so," said Porthos, flashing Athos a wicked grin. "I'd hate to think we rode all this way not to have a little excitement." Athos tilted a look at Porthos, but couldn't help the small smile that pulled at his lips. Only Porthos would be disappointed at _not_ finding a group of revolutionaries plotting to overthrow the monarchy and blow up the palace.

There had been whispers and rumors of dissidents gathering a force in Doue. Treville had ordered them to investigate. They'd been pointed to this country estate by a barkeep in town, but it looked quiet and empty. Which made Athos uneasy.

"Be wary."

Porthos nodded and led the way toward the house.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

There wasn't much in the stables, a dusty wagon and no evidence of animals being recently kept there. Perhaps this place was as abandoned as it appeared.

Athos was walking to one of the smaller outbuildings when there came a roar and a push of heat at his back.

When he turned, he stumbled and nearly fell.

The house had erupted in fire and smoke, walls collapsing and tumbling. The breeze brought the unmistakeable burn of gunpowder to his nose and horror rising in his gut.

It was a heartbeat, but it felt like forever. He couldn't move. In the ashing plumes, he could see lonely, cold years stretched before him, unbroken by warm, loud laughter. Empty of the one person who could make him smile with any sort of regularity, whether he wished it or not.

How would he tell Aramis?

He slowly began to run toward the smoking ruins of the house, then faster and faster.

The other Musketeers were close behind, searching the wreckage, calling out for comrades.

He wanted to scream Porthos' name, but the commander in him fought it down. Athos knew he had more than one man who was probably dead this day.

Through the smoke and dust, the edge of a sword caught his eye. He climbed over a fallen stone wall, sliding down the rubble until he reached the shine of metal. The sword was still in its owner's hand, but the hand was not still in the possession of its body. If Athos had eaten that morning, it would have been for nothing as his stomach rebelled. But it wasn't Porthos. Those dark blue gloves were Michel's. It did not take Athos long to find the rest of him.

Athos moved on.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Athos!" Athos made his way carefully toward the sound of his name. He arrived to see Alain and Thierry lifting a heavy beam to free the man below it. Porthos.

Athos knelt next to Porthos. Grey stone dust coated him, hollowing his eyes, paling his skin, except where it ran black with blood.

Dead. He looks dead.

Athos shook his head sharply, pulling off his gloves and reaching to feel for a pulse. Porthos' skin was cool and gritty, but there was a low throb under his fingertips.

"Is he alive?" asked Alain.

"He is." Athos marveled at how steady he sounded, considering how his own life felt balanced on the edge of the question. "Keep moving, locate everyone."

When they had scattered to obey, he gently ran his hands over Porthos, searching. A gash at his hairline, blood running down his face and neck. Ribs that shifted under pressure. Athos longed for Aramis' steadiness. He'd know how best to proceed.

Athos looked through the hazy, smoky air, his fingers resting on the pulse at Porthos' neck. If this was a trap, they'd walked right into it. But it didn't feel like a trap, it felt like panic. If it was planned, someone should have been there to finish them off. Had they surprised the dissidents, who chosen to die rather than be apprehended?

Perhaps Porthos would know, if he survived.

If.

Something cold and fearsome spread through Athos' chest.

He needed to get Porthos out of there.

But the mission remained unfinished.

Take the wounded back?

Leave the dead?

Wait until they recovered everyone?

What if it took hours?

_Don't you care about Porthos?_

Athos set his jaw, decision made.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Two hours later, the first wagon was traveling toward Paris, Theirry at the reins. Athos held Porthos against his chest, trying to keep him still as the wagon bounced along quickly. Beside him, Etienne's face was white as every jolt traveled through his broken leg.

Athos couldn't stomach the idea of his brothers being brought back to Paris tied to the backs of their horses like so much luggage. So he'd commandeered another wagon from a nearby farm. It already contained the bodies of Michel, Benoit, and Thibaut, wrapped in their cloaks. Amaury and Alain had remained to keep looking for Laurent. They'd follow when they found him.

Athos chafed at leaving them behind, not staying to see this finished himself. But Athos had already lost so much to duty. If Porthos died this day, he would die in the arms of a friend.

At least Athos could give him that.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: I'm trying to do something a bit longer here, and I do have most of it figured out, but I'd love some feedback ere I finish it.

Also, medical knowledge during this time period was crap. And that makes this tricky.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

"_Night is a time of rigor, but also of mercy. There are truths which one can see only when it's dark_." ―Isaac Bashevis Singer

* * *

Hunting with the King. God, was there anything more unbearable?

D'Artagnan scanned the rolling hills for the hundredth time, but there was nothing to see.

He was antsy. And bored. And not hiding it well.

The King's hunters were out in the woods, trying to scare some game their way, but it had been an uneventful day, which the King was going on about.

At length.

He was pretty sure this might be worse than parades.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes and glanced at Aramis. He flashed d'Artagnan a knowing smile, but he didn't seem restless at all. D'Artagnan hoped he learn Aramis' easy patience, or Athos' stately reserve. Or at the very least, Porthos' ability to give the appearance of decorum.

Because right now, he was thinking about fainting to have something to do.

D'Artagnan surveyed the hills again and caught sight of a rider galloping toward them.

"Captain," he called. Captain Treville swung around on his horse to follow d'Artagnan's point. The rider was in Musketeer blue, but was definitely not expected.

"Stay alert," ordered Treville and rode out to meet the approaching rider. They spoke briefly and Treville rode back to them quickly.

"Your Highness, forgive me," said Treville. "A messenger from the city, I need to return at once."

"Is everything well, Captain," asked the King mildly.

"As well as they can be, Your Highness, but my presence is required. I will leave Aramis to lead your Musketeers in my absence and to see you safely back to the palace." The King nodded his consent, and Treville locked eyes with Aramis.

"Aramis, once the King has retired, return to the barracks."

"Of course, Captain," agreed Aramis smoothly, but d'Artagnan heard something tighten in his voice. The Captain wheeled his horse toward Paris at a gallop.

"What was that all about?" wondered d'Artagnan softly, looking at Aramis. The other man merely shook his head, but they both watched the Captain's departure.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It took some time, but once the hunting party had returned to the palace, the King had disappeared inside the palace and their services no longer required, Aramis wasted no time directing the remaining Musketeers back to the barracks. Their pace through the crowded city streets was a bit too fast for d'Artagnan's comfort.

"Aramis?"

"I want to believe it's nothing," said Aramis quickly, looking unsettled. And that was worrying. D'Artagnan wasn't used to seeing Aramis ruffled. He didn't even try to mask his disbelief.

"I believe," said Aramis, with careful composure, "the only other mission going on was the rumor of rabble-rousers in Doue."

"Doue? Isn't that were Athos and Porthos are?" The dark look Aramis threw him was hard to read, but he felt like a foolish boy for not realizing what Aramis was driving at. "You think they've gotten into some sort of trouble."

"Is that so very hard to fathom?"

"No," sighed d'Artagnan. "Not at all."

As they neared the barracks, d'Artagnan saw Aramis straighten.

"God above," he breathed, all pretense of calm slipping away.

"What is it?" Aramis merely spurred his horse to a gallop, skillfully dodging people as he went.

D'Artagnan squinted through the crowded streets and golden evening light. A wagon was pulling through the gate of the barracks.

All he could make out were shapes covered by the remains of blue cloaks.

He followed after Aramis as quickly as he could.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Athos had just finished briefing Treville when horses noisily galloped into the yard. He gave his Captain a look and quickly left the office, moving down the stairs.

"Athos," said Aramis, dismounting. His relieved smile began to die, his brown eyes searching. Athos knew what he saw: doublet missing, bloody shirt sleeves and red eyes. He knew who Aramis didn't see at his side, where he should have been.

"Where is he?" asked Aramis, his voice carefully level.

"Aramis," he began, the words elusive.

Faster than Athos thought possible, Aramis was in his face, hands fisted in his shirt with desperate strength.

"Where is he?" repeated Aramis.

"He's alive," said Athos softly, careful of the fierceness flashing in Aramis' eyes. "He's alive." Aramis exhaled sharply, as if he'd been punched.

"Show me."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Porthos?" murmured Aramis, sitting beside the still figure on the bed. When there was no response, he lifted the bandages around Porthos' head, his fingers parting curls to examine the wound. It started at his temple and ran behind his ear. It had a nasty edge, but would mend. "This needs stitching. I'll need to shave the hair back some, he won't like that." He looked up at Athos. "How long as he been out?"

"Since midday." Aramis kept his face carefully blank, but he doubted it mattered. Hours. That's why Athos looked so bleak.

"What?" asked d'Artagnan, not missing the looks.

"It's rarely good when someone is unconscious for so long," Athos answered softly.

"Well, at least no one is going to have to punch him," said Aramis with strained brightness. "Please fetch my kit, d'Artagnan. And plenty of fresh water, he's a dusty mess." As the door shut behind the young Gascon, Aramis speared Athos with a look.

"What happened?"

"We were investigating the country estate. I sent part of the men, including Porthos, to the house and the rest of us searched the outer grounds. There was an explosion. The house was mostly destroyed. If there were revolutionaries, we never saw them. I don't know what or who triggered the gunpowder," reported Athos, his voice flat and directed to the floor. "I returned in one wagon with Porthos, Thierry and Etienne. I sent for Treville. Amaury and Alain just now returned with the second wagon."

"Was anyone else injured?"

"Etienne's leg is broken. Amaury, Alain, Thierry and I are unharmed." His voice never wavered, but when he looked up, Aramis had rarely seen him so anguished. "The others are beyond injury now."

Aramis lowered his eyes and crossed himself. He let one hand rest on Porthos' chest and he wanted to be reassured by the rise and fall beneath his palm, but he wasn't. Nearly everyone else who's been in the house was dead. And Porthos... The door opened again and Athos turned away to the window as d'Artagnan returned.

Aramis gathered himself quickly. He would not give up yet.

"I need more light, gentlemen, the day is fading. Build up the fire and bring some lanterns. I have a reputation as a fine seamstress to maintain."


	3. Chapter 3

I'm trying to do something a bit longer here, and I do have most of it figured out, but I'd love some feedback ere I finish it.

Also, medical knowledge during this time period was crap. And that makes this tricky.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

"_Night is a time of rigor, but also of mercy. There are truths which one can see only when it's dark."_  
―Isaac Bashevis Singer

* * *

It was nearly midnight when d'Artagnan slipped into the room where Porthos lay and Aramis sat.

"I brought you some food," he said, setting down the plate of bread and cheese.

"Thank you," said Aramis with a gentle smile, but he didn't make a move for the plate. D'Artagnan sat down at the other side of the bed and studied Porthos. The big man might have been merely sleeping, if not for the lines around Aramis' eyes. Hours later and nothing had changed. He stood back up again. He wanted to pace, to move. Something. He stopped and stared down at Porthos again.

"Perhaps we should call for the surgeon." Aramis shook his head.

"D'Artagnan, I did not set out to be a sewer of skin. I never wanted to put my companions back together. But, as a soldier, it became necessary. Oft times, army surgeons are too late and when they arrive, they are little more than butchers or barbers."

"You don't trust them."

"I trust them to do certain things." Aramis corrected. He took a long, deep breath before he spoke again. "Etienne is probably going to lose his leg." D'Artagnan grimaced. "It was crushed by a wall in the explosion, the flesh is dying. Either he loses the leg or he loses his life. But I'll not be the one to take it. That is the job for a surgeon." Aramis looked down at Porthos' still form.

"But for Porthos...there is little a surgeon can do that I have not already done. His breathing is fine. The wound is sound. There is no fever, no delirium, there is nothing to bleed out of him," said Aramis, frustrated. He looked lost.

"I'm sorry, Aramis." The look that Aramis gave him effectively pinned him to the wall as soundly as an elbow to the throat.

"There is _nothing_ to be sorry about," reproached Aramis. "Do you understand?"

D'Artagnan felt his ears burn as he realized he had once again said the absolute worst thing. Aramis didn't want sympathy. He didn't want d'Artagnan acting as though their friend was already dead. He nodded quickly.

"Of course." They shared silence for several minutes. When Aramis spoke again, his voice was as smooth and affable as always.

"Porthos has always done things in his own time." He looked at d'Artagnan and smiled as though they were sharing a joke at Porthos' expense. Teasing, as though Porthos could hear them. "Best not to rush him."

Despite his heavy heart, d'Artagnan managed to smile back.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was probably an hour later when the door opened and shut softly behind him. Aramis looked up to see Athos, a bottle in his hand. His eyes were no less red, but now probably from drink rather than smoke. He looked drained. And haunted.

"What will you do if your God takes him?" Aramis blinked in surprise. Rarely was Athos so plain-spoken. He must truly be hating himself tonight.

"Go to bed, Athos." The older man didn't move from the door, merely stared at him.

Aramis nodded his head in acquiescence and pondered the question as though he had not been asking it of himself all night.

"If God takes him, then Porthos goes to a reward better than any he has known on Earth. No subjugation or shame. No blood and scars. Peace."

"Peace?" snorted Athos. "I doubt peace is Porthos' idea of heaven." Aramis could not help but laugh.

"You may have a point. He does love a good fight." Athos' mouth quirked up in something close to a smile, or as close as he ever came. It faded away.

"Maybe it is me. My punishment."

"No," said Aramis, all at once weary of Athos' self-flagellation. "I remember when you came to the Musketeers. One cannot say that you are a ray of joyous sunshine now, but in those days?" He shook his head thoughtfully. "In the time you have been with us, Porthos brought out a levity in you that no one else ever could. You should see those years as a blessing."

"And if he dies, where is the blessing?"

"We are given nothing with the promise of forever, Athos. Perhaps God believes you are ready to smile on your own."

Athos looked at him, eyes tortured.

"God does not think of me anymore. But if He does, then He is wrong."

Aramis met his gaze unflinchingly.

"Then pray we don't find out."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The barracks had been quiet for hours when Treville quietly stepped into the room.

"Captain."

"Aramis. How is the patient?"

"No change." Treville heaved a deep sigh.

"Aramis, I know better than most how hard of a head Porthos has, but..."

"I know." And he did know. He did not care to recall how many Musketeers he had seen suffer head wounds that never woke up. And there were those who woke up, but were never themselves. Simpletons with the minds of children or with limbs that refused to work properly. "I know, every hour he doesn't wake up...it is more likely he never will." Aramis forced a smile. "But as you said, Porthos is quite hard-headed. He may surprise us yet."

Treville rested his hand on Aramis' shoulder and squeezed.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was the darkest, most desolate part of the night and Aramis had never felt so alone as he knelt next to Porthos' bed.

He took off the cross the Queen had given him, kissed it and folded it into Porthos' lax fingers, holding them with his own.

"Lord, I have no words or prayers. I have given all my faith away and left none for myself." Aramis bowed, his forehead coming to rest on the bed, weighted by exhaustion and sadness. "I am a beggar before You, selfish and wanting, with one plea... Please, God, do not take him." He took a shuddering breath. "He is my brother. Do not let him die."

The lonesome, cold hours before dawn were interrupted only by a single whispered request, continuous and unchanging.

"Please do not take him."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: Medical knowledge during this time period was crap. And that makes this tricky.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

"_Night is a time of rigor, but also of mercy. There are truths which one can see only when it's dark_." ―Isaac Bashevis Singer

* * *

Aramis awoke slowly to the feeling of fingers threading through his hair. He ached, his head felt stuffed with cotton. He relaxed into the touch, trying to remember how much he'd drank last night and who's bed he'd ended up in.

Porthos.

Aramis gasped, lifting his head sharply. The hand fell from his head, dark eyes peered at him with an unreadable gaze.

"Porthos?" He dared not hope. He could not bear it if Porthos wasn't completely with him. The large man's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Who else would I be?"

Aramis let his head fall, pressing his suddenly burning eyes to the mattress.

"No one else," he answered brokenly. "I would have you be no one else."

"Aramis?" He looked up again into Porthos' worried face. "What's wrong?"

His heart soared. Porthos knew him. The friend Aramis had known and loved and pleaded for was breathing and looking at him and talking to him and his face hurt with the wide smile that felt like coming home.

"Everything is alright, Porthos. I've just missed you."

"Where'd I go?" murmured Porthos, his hand traveling up to the stitches at his temple. Aramis cleared his throat.

"What do you remember?"

"Doue?" Aramis nodded encouragingly, waiting for the memories to rise. Porthos shut his eyes, fingertips still fretting at his stitches. Aramis gently pulled the hand away, trapping it in his own. Porthos' eyes shot open, filled with panic. "Athos?"

"Athos is fine," soothed Aramis.

As if summoned, the door opened.

"Speak of the devil," said Aramis and his smile only grew at the shock on Athos' face. He stepped quickly to Porthos' side.

"Porthos? How are you?" Porthos' tried to sit up and his answer was lost in a cry of pain.

"Easy, easy," said Aramis. "You have some broken ribs that are going to smart for a while." With instinctual partnership, Athos carefully helped Porthos push up and Aramis quickly fitted extra blankets behind his back. Together, they eased him back and waited for his breathing to even out. Aramis looked across at Athos. His green eyes were drinking Porthos in with something like wonder. He looked so much younger.

Athos built barricades and walls, but Porthos pushed through them with his warm nature as easily as a bird flew.

"Oi," said Porthos eventually, patting Athos' knee. "What did we manage to get into then?" Athos looked up at Aramis. He shook his head minutely. He didn't know what Porthos remembered. And he didn't know about four dead Musketeers.

"Right here," rumbled Porthos, glaring at them fuzzily. "And I have eyes. Out with it." Athos tilted his head slightly and Aramis took the hint.

"Excuse me," he rose slowly, on knees that protested hours on the floor. He shuffled out, shut the door and leaned against the wall and closed his eyes against the early morning light. The long vigil of the night wore on him, he was so very tired.

"Aramis?" He looked up to see d'Artagnan approaching quickly, trepidation all over his young face. "Is he..."

"He woke up," answered Aramis, smiling broadly. "He seems intact and well. He'll be sore for a while, but that is acceptable, given the alternative." D'Artagnan laughed, reaching out to shake Aramis' hand.

"Thank God."

"Yes," agreed Aramis. "Thank God."

"Can I see him?"

"In a little while. Athos is with him now."

"Ah," said d'Artagnan, his smile slipping a little. "Does he remember..."

"I don't think so, but let us leave them to discuss it. Come, let's go tell the Captain."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"We went to Doue. Rebels or some such?"

"Probably," mused Athos, "given the amount of gunpowder that went off. We split up to search the grounds. You were in the house when it exploded. Did you see anyone?" Porthos frowned thoughtfully.

"Don't remember. Not even sure I remember going in the house." Porthos looked up at him. "How long was I out?"

"Nearly a day." Porthos started.

"That long?" He gave a low whistle. "That certainly clears up a point or two."

"Does it?" Porthos held out a hand. The cross that the Queen had given Aramis lay in his large palm.

"Musta been serious," said Porthos, watching him carefully. Athos gazed at his friend, trying to imagine his life without this bold storm of a man. He found he could not.

"It was," he said at last. "Porthos,... Michel, Benoit, Thibaut, and Laurent are dead. Etienne lost a leg." Porthos closed his eyes, jaw clenched. Athos reached out and let his fingers circle Porthos' wrist lightly. He was not given to physical displays, to comradely touch. But Porthos was.

After a few moments, Porthos let out a long, pained breath and opened his eyes. They were dark, sad and shining, but settled.

"We'll find who did it," swore Porthos.

"Treville is readying another mission as we speak." Porthos sniffed and nodded.

"I am pleased you are well," murmured Athos. "I never thought I'd be so thankful for your unyielding head." Porthos gave him a sly, sleepy grin.

"I'll be sure to remind you of it, next time you think some spot of trouble is my fault."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Porthos opened his eyes when he felt gentle fingertips on his head. Aramis smiled down at him and continued his examination.

"How do you feel?"

"Like I got blown up."

"Care to be a bit more expressive?"

"Head hurts. Ribs ache. But I'll live."

"You had better." Porthos could see the lines and shadows around Aramis' eyes, the weary way he dropped himself into the chair by the bed.

"You look like hell."

"It's almost as if someone has been monopolizing my time as of late."

"Couldn't be me. I'd remember," said Porthos with a smirk. He reached out to give Aramis his cross back.

"Bad this time, eh?"

The shift in Aramis was instantaneous as he eyed the offered cross. Instead of taking it, he captured Porthos' hand, pressing the cross between their palms.

"It's bad every time, Porthos," answered Aramis, his voice barely a whisper.

"Hey now," he said, just as softly, dismayed at the sudden change in Aramis. "None of that. I'll be fine and fit soon enough." Aramis nodded, but stayed silent. Porthos was at a loss.

He couldn't promise he'd be more careful. Porthos wasn't reckless, but nor did he shy from battle. He couldn't promise he'd never get hurt again. A soldier couldn't make a promise like that.

So he sat and waited with his friend.

Porthos had nearly dozed off again when Aramis finally spoke, his voice rough and thick with emotion.

"I do not know if God spared you or it was your own stubborn will. Either way, I am grateful. Because..." he paused, eyes heavenward, looking for the words. "Because I do not know how to navigate this world without you." Aramis looked down at him with naked affection, so embracing and strong, he felt his cheeks warm.

"Someone's gotta look after you," Porthos rumbled, clearing his throat. Aramis smiled and Porthos' world righted itself. "I'll take on the task as long as is needed."

"Are you certain?" asked Aramis playfully. "I'm completely incorrigible, that may be a long time. Possibly forever." Porthos smiled back.

"Forever at your side don't frighten me none."

And it was true.


End file.
